


The Catch

by elbowsinsidethedoor



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic, Reference to Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 23:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13351779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbowsinsidethedoor/pseuds/elbowsinsidethedoor
Summary: Zaniida's prompt for January presents a cruel scenario. I couldn't leave the boys in danger so I took up her challenge. I gave the bad guy an identity -- Alistair Wesley, from the episode "Critical" as he was depicted in the lengthy torture tome by my friend, M_E_Lover, entitled, The Ties that Bind Us Together (Can Sometimes Rip us Apart.)http://archiveofourown.org/works/8630332/chapters/19790494





	The Catch

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [January Promptly Arrives](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13229145) by [Zaniida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida). 



> The first section blends Zaniida's writing with my own.

“Put the gun down, John,” the man says.

It’s a bitter morning in January that John finds the library violated and Harold at the mercy of an old foe. Time stops. Alistair Wesley is looking down at him from the second floor balcony. A twisted, sadistic man, trained in torture by MI6. Harold’s compassion had saved him once from John’s wrath. This time, he must die.

Harold’s battered body is suspended in a chair harness from the top railing, his hands tied to the rope about a foot above his head. His head bobs a little, he must be drugged or passed out. It’s a twenty, maybe twenty-five foot drop. To survive a fall from that height, training dictates the body needs to be relaxed, oriented feet first, knees bent. The floor is littered with decomposing books that could absorb some impact. Wesley has unwittingly ceded a small advantage. It isn’t much, it isn’t safe, not for an injured man with fused vertebrae, but it’s a chance. As if he needed reminding, the slow rotation of Harold’s body reveals the alternative, what it would mean to leave him in Wesley’s hands. The back of his suit has been cut off, leaving ragged edges along the sides of his tortured skin.

Wesley plays out the rope a little and Harold sways.

Slowly, John lowers his gun to the floor, shifting position subtly for a better angle. He keeps his gaze centered on his enemy, whose mouth twists up into a cocksure grin.

“Now,” Wesley says, “since I don’t for a moment trust that I just disarmed you, you can leave your clothes behind as well. Take ’em all off. Unless your dignity is worth his life?”

“Sick bastard. Prison was too good for you.” A feral grin is taking shape on his lips as he peels off his jacket, unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall. Wesley is right, there are other weapons hidden on his body and John calculates which is best for the job at hand.

“You’ll need to take a nicer tone than that, my friend. If I let go of this rope, he falls.”

A weak groan escapes Harold as John bends to untie a shoe. Soon, John thinks, and makes his choice. The sightline is clear. He draws and fires from the ankle holster. There’s a look of dumb shock on Wesley’s face, shot in the head.

John dives.

The rope pulls free of the dead man's hand and Harold is falling, seconds from impact, but John is there in time to receive him. It crushes the breath from his lungs to absorb the pressure but he curls around Harold, rolling with the force before the world turns black.

 

***

 

Harold doesn’t have a name for what John Reese is to him, or how it feels to see him. He’s appeared in the workroom as if everything is normal; a cardboard tray in hand, coffee for himself and tea for Harold, as if the cast on his arm and the sling are a convenience for holding the tray steady. His coat is gracefully draped because the arm with the cast can’t fit in the sleeve. In John’s other hand is a bag with what he’s sure must be pastry.

John Reese is more than his friend. More than a partner. He isn’t his lover, although Harold’s heart is overflowing at the sight of him. The jury is still out on their physical relationship. It may never come in. Their discussion of possibilities has been long and silent, carried on with their eyes and subtle gestures. Sometimes it’s Harold who catches John looking, a warm speculation in his gaze. Sometimes it’s Harold who is caught. John speaks with his body, standing close, leaning in, offering. Harold is unsure, for many reasons. The silent conversation is often suspended, but has never ended.

Does it matter? Harold sits forward in his chair by necessity, his back is still tender, the waistcoat might have been a step too far. Shaw had given him the green light and he’s very glad to be at his desk. The light of his computer screens gives him a feeling of normalcy, distraction. And John is here, carefully setting tea on the desk for him.

Can a person be physically closer than putting their body between you and death? What John did was crazy. To catch him. Broken ribs, broken arm, concussion. John was unconscious and Harold in a drugged daze on top of him when Shaw found them.

“Blueberry scone?”

“Yes, please,” Harold says.

The scone is perfect, the tea good and hot. He glances up to find John’s eyes devouring him. The gaze is slowly shuttered, but Harold waits. The dark-fringed eyelids rise again. He looks surprised that Harold is still watching him; not their usual game of hide and seek.

John tilts his head. His smile is tentative, as if he’s asking — should I be happy about this?

Harold clears his throat, not at all sure he can speak with his heart so full. “Why don’t you,” he begins, almost falters … but John’s waiting. “Come and sit closer to me.”

The chair scrapes, the long limbs resettle with a few winces that he tries to hide, but Harold sees them. The room feels much warmer, John’s leg is touching his.

“This close?” he asks.

“Yes,” Harold answers.

It couldn’t be more awkward or the timing worse, Harold thinks, as they try to touch without hurting each other. But it couldn’t be better or more perfect when they succeed. The rasp of his clothes on the barely healed skin of his back is nothing compared to the pleasure of the first long kiss.


End file.
